While cleaning my condo one day, I discovered something that I’ve carried with me since I was about four-years-old. Tucked away in a cupboard filled with odds-and-ends that I don’t have use for at the moment but can’t bear to part with, such as an unopened Holga camera and a Fitbit that taunts my guilty conscious, sat one of the first books that my parents bought me. With the title “Dinosaurs and Prehistoric Animals”, the content is pretty self-explanatory but it turned out to be so much more than just words on paper to my kinder self.

From the time I saw it on the bookshelf of Woolco, I was mesmerized. What were these majestic creatures on the cover? Were they monsters? Were they some form of dragon (and, if so, where was the princess that would inevitably need to be saved from them)? I wanted to learn more. My mind was blown when my father explained that they actually once inhabited the very same planet we lived on. As a child, it was almost too much to process (and apparently still is for a number of religious zealots). He explained how they lived and evolved, and theorized on their demise. From that point on, I became obsessed. The toys in my room were increasingly taken over by stuffed triceratops and scale-model T-Rexes. My father noted this and took me on a dig at Dinosaur Provincial Park and to visit the Royal Tyrell Museum of Palaeontology, both in Western Canada, which I try to still visit once a year.

Other than my name written on the inside front cover, the book is in really great condition considering how old it is and how much I would have referenced it growing up. Opening its pages today takes me back to sitting on the floor of my childhood bedroom, light pink walls and grey mottled carpet, as I soaked in every detail of the illustrations. The intricacies of the beast’s scaly skin, the ombre colour of the cretaceous landscapes … the book welcomed me into new worlds of which I would regularly visit in my mind and began my journey of being an unabashed bookworm. The price sticker for the book is still present. Just four dollars and ninety-five cents. A minuscule investment into a child’s imagination that has spawned decades of learning, wonder and enjoyment.

I don’t think I will ever get rid of this book. I don’t think I could. I have a bond with it that might seem silly, but it is my “Rosebud”. A thether to a simpler time and to a young girl that I never want to lose touch with.

The first time I met Reggie was on my birthday in 2005. A week prior I had lost my first childhood pet, a border collie named Pepper, and was visiting a local no-kill shelter to spend an hour or so playing and interacting with the dogs as a sort of therapy for dealing with my loss. It was, theoretically, supposed to end there. But of course it didn't. As soon as I saw the little lab-cross in his cage, looking longingly at me with his puppy-dog eyes, seemingly imploring me to rescue him, I simply had to. He found a home and I found a faithful friend that would bring joy and companionship to my life for years to come.

Over time, Reggie became somewhat of a legend in my neighbourhood. He grew into a big dog–just two years ago, he weighed in at 95lbs at the vet–and had an intimidating look about him, exacerbated by a grizzly bear-type hump on his back. This was all a facade though. Black dogs, as studies show, are perceived as being more "aggressive" than other colours of canines. In actuality, Reggie was a big softie. He was a ham who loved attention while out on his walks. We went everywhere together. During this time, I operated a home-based design business and taking him out for his daily strolls became part of my creative process, forcing me from my desk and allowing my mind to flourish with new stimuli. Upon reflection, these moments provided some of my fondest memories. The time I spent with him in virtual solitude on our hikes, admiring the simplicity of nature and complexity of life, instilled a deep appreciation for exploration that I might not otherwise have. As friend, as companion, this animal helped me grow.

I wasn't able to have a large dog in my apartment when I moved cities in 2010 and so my parents took on Reg. My father started calling him "Bone" to the point where people had forgotten his given name (he was named after the Reggie character in Archie comics for his raven black hair). As my father entered retirement, he and "Bone" developed a deep bond that was only broken when my father died from esophageal cancer in 2014. Prior to his passing, he confided in me that the dog had saved his life, jumping on his chest as he lay in bed one morning struggling to breathe. He felt no one would believe it but I did. I, myself, can attest to the strange behaviour of Reg/Bone just a few hours after my father was gone. He knew. Somehow, he knew.

The last time I saw Reggie was in April. I was visiting my mom in Winnipeg and she had some concerns about him. At the time, I felt he appeared okay. His vision and hearing had long been in decline but at the age of thirteen, which is eighty-two in dog years, it was to be expected. And even though he struggled a bit while walking, I felt he was still alert enough that we probably had a few months left. Perhaps Autumn would be the time to make that difficult decision that every pet owner fears.

But Autumn wouldn't come.

Reggie, one of the best good boys on the planet, passed away on May 29. I am very saddened that I didn't get to say goodbye to this wonderful soul that has been a constant presence in my life through a very transitional era. He will forever be loved and hold a place in my heart.

I was all set. My suitcase packed and I even took a sleeping pill to ensure that I would get a good eight (or so) hours of sleep prior to the long day of international travel ahead. Exiting the shower, I could already feel the drowsiness set in. Success. But a cursory glance at my phone changed that—several notifications from Air Canada filled my screen notifying me that my flight the following morning was cancelled.

My city ended up getting around 24cm of snow in just over twenty-four hours. With my first flight kaput, I missed out on my connection to Hong Kong and had to postpone my holiday by one day. Admittedly, I was disappointed (and who wouldn't be). Thoughts of lost moments (and lost money) gave me brief anxiety ... but all that dissipated when I checked into my hotel and set sight on the view in my upgraded room. Nothing else seemed to matter. This was priceless.

"Everyone was saying I should be happy with how I played and stuff. But, like, I don’t care about that. I want to win."

The quote above is from an article written by Patrik Laine, right-winger for the Winnipeg Jets. The article generated buzz on social media for a number of reasons, including Patrik's self-professed love for my hometown (fuck the haters, Winnipeg is good). But it was the insight into the inner monologue of a professional athlete that has stuck with me. Even though I'm partially allergic to exercise, I relate to it. I also want to win.

My partner learned this recently when we played badminton together for the first time. I hadn't played in eons and forgot most of the rules but that didn't matter. I went in hard. After volleying for a bit, he commented on how I was better than he anticipated. I gave my best "awwww, shucks" face and continued with my strategy of playing to his strengths while blinding him with mine. After all, I'm not there to just look cute while feeding into someone else's ego. I bring my A-game.

I didn't always feel this way though.

I am naturally gifted in sport; probably inheriting the trait from my father who was a formidable athlete in several areas including hockey and baseball. In my youth, I participated in the Canada Fitness Awards which were administered nationally through physical education programs in school. I regularly came out on top for my gender but I recall one relay event in particular in which I received the fastest time for my school overall. I was so proud, as were my female classmates who ecstatically attempted to carry me on their shoulders in a makeshift parade. The boys glowered. These awards meant nothing, really, in the grand scheme of things but the hostility and taunting I received afterwards subconsciously informed me to dial it down. To play in my own sandbox and focus on making friends during this critical developmental time rather than attempt to stand out with exception.

Reading my words back now, I have but one thought: this is some bullshit.

With maturity, I have learned to not let anyone diminish one of my greatest assets: confidence.

I recently had a psychometric assessment of my personality done at work. To no one's surprise, I came out as an extreme type-A, being very purposeful and structured with tremendous attention to detail. But also competitive. Very competitive. In fact, it was the highest rated quality of my persona at 98% (and it was my competitive side that wondered if anyone ranked higher). I did shrink a bit as our team compared notes, wanting to conceal what I initially perceived as a negative trait, but I'm learning to embrace it more openly. This aspect of my personality never stems from a dark place, only one of potential betterment (for myself and, I believe, others). For example, I would never aim to "win at all costs". If my body, mind and accumulated skill level can't get me to succeed on their own, I see it as a means to improve myself, not cheat. This is where the challenge of competition can lead to great things. It can motivate. It can elevate. Beyond sport, picture a world in which the genius of Thomas Edison wasn't feuding with Nikola Tesla. Imagine where we'd be without the duelling technological might of Bill Gates and Steve Jobs. Being inspired to evolve, rather than simply adapt, is what gives humanity purpose.

It also reminded me of a piece of advice my father once gave me eons ago:

"Don't lower yourself to anyone else's level. Make them rise to yours."